


Warrior Armor

by orphan_account



Category: The Man from Elysian Fields (2001)
Genre: Drama & Romance, Hand Fetishism and Prostitution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22088365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Nigel gives Bryon a little pep talk before their next gig.
Relationships: Nigel Halsey/Bryon Tiller





	Warrior Armor

"Elysian Fields," he smiles, a peculiar brand of sweetness threatening to rot his perfect teeth. Nigel turns away from the mirror to face Bryon. He catches his reflection in the other man's eyes and likes how he looks within them. _Quite the flattering angle,_ he muses with his eyes and not at all subtly. "That special place where the righteous and heroic finally get to live a little. Ironic, yes, _Mr. Writer?"_

Bryon's brows furrow with suspicion which in turn draws a mean little laugh from Nigel, openly confirming that he is indeed poking fun at the newest addition to Luther Fox's family. Brothers can be such terrible creatures to one another.

Nigel tips up his chin in the air, straightening his collar while also keeping Bryon locked in his gaze. The way he cranes his neck to the side is almost vulgar - he's flashing Bryon without even needing to whip out his cock. Somehow this guy has perfected the balance between domination and submission and depending on who he is talking to, Nigel can flip that switch in whichever direction at will. He's a professional down to the core and _goddamn_ does he love his job.

Then there's his fingers. Smoothing out his tie, his hands dance with a finely tuned sense of eroticism. Slow and deliberate, each finger moves in just a way that sings, _'pay attention to me and only me. Never mind anything or anyone else in the room.'_ Seasoned escorts are equal parts artist and magician. Bryon's shoulders sulk with a looming self-consciousness; he's never been one to pay much heed to his nails but Nigel's are _so_ impeccably manicured. Bryon's hands retreat behind his back. Just add the failed novelist's new insecurity to the growing pile.

A long silence unfolds between the two men as Nigel finishes dolling himself up. Bryon wants to ask Nigel a question and Nigel, knowing this full well, wants Bryon to ask. Lip service is his specialty after all.

It pisses Bryon off that he has so easily fallen into Nigel's charismatic web but he supposes he shouldn't take it personally. Nigel is ranked among one of Luther's best, a title one does not earn without fighting ruthlessly for. Still, his already bruised ego is wounded further over Nigel viewing him more along the lines of a client than as a fellow employee. It's strikes Bryon as weird and unfortunate that he cares.Even though he still has a ton of hang-ups about this line of work, he's already getting sucked into the office culture of it.

"Have any of your girls been into..." They're alone in the fitting room but Bryon's voice lowers to a whisper, "well, you know. Like, do you get a fetishist every now and then or whatever?"

Bryon instantly regrets asking when Nigel snorts so hard that it sounded as if he might have finally broken his coke ruptured nasal passage. It was such a naive thing to say. Downright childish. A more elegant choice of words had alluded him yet again, curse his writer's block. _Of course_ there were kinky patrons to Elysian Fields. Duh! What Bryon had meant to ask was whether or not Nigel had learned through trial and error to be so smooth or if he was naturally gifted. Had the agency trained Nigel and would they eventually train Bryon or was he expected to learn on the job? Do women generally request a specific type of man to spend a night out on the town with?

Nigel shakes his head in a _'wow, the master must be losing it in his old age to believe in this amateur'_ kind of way and the heat burning Bryon's face scalds up past his ears. Wishing to erase whatever doubt and ammunition Bryon may have unwittingly given Nigel, he opens his mouth but quickly closes again, thinking better of the phrase, _'You just seem skillful with your hands and I was wondering if your customers are into that.'_

The fitting room smells just as one would assume it would. Like money. Lots and lots of money. Dozens of the industry's finest suits line the racks, accompanied by luxury jewelry and watches protected behind glass that glitters in dim ambient lighting. But Bryon can smell Nigel too, his cologne akin to what Bryon imagines James Bond must douse himself with before a grand adventure. _No,_ Bryon decides, if anything it's got more of a glam rock star vibe. Somehow both strong and soft, the mix of cardamom and lavender that peppers Nigel's throat and chest confuses Bryon and he can't make up his mind on whether or not it was a more masculine or feminine scent.

"Often," comes a breezy response to Bryon's asinine inquiry. "Though if you broaden the definition, all of my clients are arguably 'fetishists'. You don't spend that kind of money without expecting rare and exotic treatment."

 _'Don't you mean -our- clients?'_ Bryon thinks with bitterness but only manages to nod, his tongue tied in a knot. He can feel Nigel studying every movement of his face and body; _the twitching of an eye, the dilating of pupils, a flaring of nostrils, an awkward shifting of weight on either foot_ , anything that might provide Nigel valuable information about Byron. _'He's searching for a weapon to use against me.'_

For whatever reason, Bryon's attention shifts for a split second over to the four panels of artwork hanging on the wall behind Nigel. They were tacky but fitting, Luther Fox's interior decorator a little too on the nose with the whole Kama Sutra motif. Bryon's eyes dart back to Nigel who, judging by his broadening smile, has caught Bryon doing something he shouldn't be.

The two of them are playing a game and Nigel is dangerously close to winning. Bryon can't figure out what the prize might be but Nigel seems eager to claim it for himself. Bryon tries to put on his bravest poker face but this act alone is enough to tip Nigel off who's arrogant smirk shines brighter than the city skyline outside the window. Bryon isn't a violent man but he sure would love to pop Nigel in the mouth right about now. 

Bryon doesn't care if Nigel wins because he doesn't care about this dark world he's fallen into. Hidden outside his life as a published author and dedicated husband and father, when it comes to the realm of gigolos, to win is to lose and Bryon isn't a loser. He... he isn't. He's just temporarily down on his luck and doing all of this to keep a roof over his _real_ family's heads. That's all. Honest. He has no plans to stick around Elysian Fields once his new book gets the green light.

His book.

Yes, his _masterpiece_ , the one that will make him famous and rich and will bless him with never having to worry about rent or paying overdue bills ever again!

He keeps telling himself this over and over but similar to his last book that ended up thrown in the bargain bins of local stores, his words don't sell and ring hollow in his mind. He knows deep down that he _does_ care if Nigel wins and he does care if he is a loser. If he is a loser then he has to become a winner _and fuck, fuck fuck! Damn Nigel for driving him insane like this! How did he get a rise out of Bryon so quickly and easily! What was his secret?!_

"Something wrong, love? You seem tense. Want to talk about it? That's what I'm here for after all and for someone as funny as you, no charge." Nigel doesn't give Bryon the chance to answer as he struts casually past him and out the door, grazing his shoulder against Bryon's just enough for Bryon to feel it but not enough to let him know if it was intentional or not.

Were they still playing or had the game ended? Or was it just beginning? Bryon frowns, reflexively looking in the mirror and brushing himself off as if there might be dirt or stains sullying the borrowed suit that cost more than his car. 

"Are you coming? There's nothing that dries them up faster than being late," Nigel calls out from around the corner.


End file.
